


Left to the Dogs

by sherific



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherific/pseuds/sherific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two lived across from each other, Achilles in a looming mansion with marble pillars and a chauffeur, Patroclus in a two-bedroom single-story and a few stolen library books. Looking across the broad avenue, occasionally they could spot each other through their windows, imagining that they each sailed on separate ships, bound for a lengthy battle, scared for their sorry lives but alight with manly passions. Achilles’ golden hair glowed in the lamplight, his pale skin like alabaster, his arms resting on the window sill, a smirk smeared onto his face. Patroclus’ light brown hair faded into the dimly lit living room, and his olive skin gave a bit of warmth to the dusty cracked window that they had sloppily duct-taped as a temporary repair. The nights were warm on Aegean Street in the small town of Troy, and the asphalt was dark as wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left to the Dogs

            Patroclus, the older of the two, was known for his sleepy smile and silken eyes, irises a tapestry of green leaves and dust. Achilles, the younger of the two, had a fierce grin, teeth like sharpened daggers, and he wielded his tongue like a weapon gifted to man by the gods. Girls liked Achilles, girls did not like Patroclus. Bullies liked Patroclus, bullies did not like Achilles. While Achilles time after time was hooking up with a girl, Patroclus time after time was being humiliated in the hallway. However, Achilles attended the local private boys’ school, and Patroclus attended the public school with the rest of the neighborhood kids on Aegean Street. The two lived across from each other, Achilles in a looming mansion with marble pillars and a chauffeur, Patroclus in a two-bedroom single-story and a few stolen library books. Looking across the broad avenue, occasionally they could spot each other through their windows, imagining that they each sailed on separate ships, bound for a lengthy battle, scared for their sorry lives but alight with manly passions. Achilles’ golden hair glowed in the lamplight, his pale skin like alabaster, his arms resting on the window sill, a smirk smeared onto his face. Patroclus’ light brown hair faded into the dimly lit living room, and his olive skin gave a bit of warmth to the dusty cracked window that they had sloppily duct-taped as a temporary repair. The nights were warm on Aegean Street in the small town of Troy, and the asphalt was dark as wine.

            Achilles awoke one morning feeling sick to his stomach. Glancing out his window, he saw Patroclus waiting in front of his fanciful wrought iron gate armed with his backpack and determined brow, preparing himself for a long day at school. Achilles groaned.

            “Goddammit,” he mumbled as he slid out of bed, trudging through his spacious house, dizzy and feverish. “Open the door,” he grumbled to the maid. Respectfully, the maid nodded and opened the front door, letting a rush of cool morning breeze, the taste of salt on the air. “Hey Patroclus!” he called, waving.

            “Achilles!” Patroclus returned cheerfully, waving back. “Are you almost ready? We’re a bit late!”

            “I’m feeling sick today, so I’m staying home!”

            “Oh, feel better, then! Do you want me to stop by your school and get your homework?”

            “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks! Just stop by here first after school and I’ll let you know where to go!”

            “Okay! Bye! Feel better!”

            Taking a deep breath, Patroclus, for the first time in several years, walked the sidewalk of Aegean Street alone, the neighborhood kids all in rank behind as they marched to school solemnly, exhaustion weighing on them. As they passed by the boys’ school, they caught the scent of wealth wafting from luxurious cars, rich spoiled boys stepping out of their chariots like princes. Two brothers stepped out of a beige Mercedes, one with a hardened expression and strong jaw, the other with cheeks soft from loving caresses and pampered sleep. By the way the other boys in their pristinely pressed uniforms subconsciously stepped aside to let them pass, Patroclus knew immediately that they were somebodies. He inhaled sharply and continued on his way to school.

            The hours passed slowly for Achilles as he wandered aimlessly about his house, sitting down whenever he felt dizzy and putting his head in his hands. The world whirled around him a mystery of swirling colors and shapes, and his body felt hot with illness. The ring of the doorbell did him no better, and he waved deliriously at the maid to answer it.

            “Achilles?” Patroclus peered inside to see his friend lying down on the couch.

            “Oh, Patroclus!” He sat up a bit too quickly, and hurled into the wastebasket beside him.

            “Not feeling well, huh?” Patroclus entered, setting his backpack by the door. Noting Achilles’ unusually red face and dull eyes, he settled beside him and pressed their foreheads together, feeling the sting of fever hitting him right away. “You have a fever, Achilles,” he said.

            “Tell me something I don’t know.”

            “Do your parents know?”

            “Nah, they’ve been out all day.”

            “Then who’s been taking care of you?”

            “Myself. I don’t need anyone else to take care of me.”

            “Don’t be silly.” Patroclus rose, disappearing into the bathroom. The rattle of bottles in the medicine cabinet echoed through the empty house, and he returned with some medicine and a damp towel in hand. “Take a spoonful of this,” he commanded gently, pouring the thick liquid into a silver spoon.

            “What is it?” Achilles asked skeptically.

            “Medicine, dummy. Just trust me on this.” Patroclus smiled warmly, raising the spoon to his lips, holding the back of his head with his careful hand. “Open.”

            With little other choice, Achilles opened his mouth, and Patroclus fed him the bitter medicine. It took all the boy had not to spit it up right away.

            “That stuff is brutal,” he gagged.

            “I know, but it works wonders. Now lie down and put this on your forehead. Where’s your backpack? I’m going to get your homework.”

            “It’s in the usual spot. Oh, and when you go, look out for Hector and Paris.”

            Patroclus, who had been busy putting away the medicine and cleaning out the wastebasket, paused. “Are those the ones who’ve been giving you trouble lately?”

            “Yeah. Just if you see them, avoid them. Don’t tell them you know me.”

            “Ah, okay.” Patroclus slung Achilles’ backpack over his shoulder, its weight unfamiliar and size bulky, but he relished the feeling of it on his back, imagining himself as the popular Achilles getting ready to go to school. “I’ll be back in a few, then. Don’t you do anything crazy.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            Achilles’ school reminded Patroclus of a fortress, the kind they learned about in history classes that defended cities for ages before crumbling to a silly trick like a horse. Proudly bearing Achilles’ backpack, Patroclus took a deep breath and walked in, avoiding the gazes of the suspicious boys as he searched for the classrooms to pick up Achilles’ materials. He managed to find a couple of them without any help, however, the campus being as spread out and pretentious as it was, he eventually gave in and approached a student for help.

            “Excuse me,” he said politely. “I’m looking for the Temple Building, room 134?”

            “Oh, it’s just to your left,” said the student, who happened to be the one with the strong jaw who stepped out of the beige Mercedes that morning.

            “Thank you.” As he turned to go, he felt a tug on the backpack that pulled him back.

            “Say, you, you’re one of Achilles’ friends, aren’t you? This is his backpack.” The student called Hector glared at Patroclus. His brother materialized beside him, eyes downcast, cheeks like rose petals and lips clearly softened by many kisses.

            “I just came to pick up his things,” Patroclus replied calmly. “He wasn’t feeling well today.”

            “That we know,” Hector said sharply. “Listen, around here, we don’t tolerate Achilles. This is _our_ territory, you hear?”

            “I don’t mean to cause any trouble, but I am curious, what is your problem with Achilles?”

            “Well, he and his friends have been giving my brother trouble about his girlfriend, and you see, I just don’t stand for that sort of stuff.”

            “Well, I just need to get these things and I’ll be out of here soon.”

            “Ah, ah, we aren’t done. I’ve never seen you before. You’re his _boyfriend_ , aren’t you?”

            Patroclus swallowed.

            “Well, an eye for an eye, they say.” Hector cackled. “If Achilles can mess with my brother because of his girlfriend, then I can mess with you because your Achilles’ boyfriend. Isn’t that how it works?” He grinned and slammed him against the lockers.

            Patroclus closed his eyes, numbing his body the way he always did at school when the fluorescent lights shined unfavorably upon him.

            _“Are those the ones who’ve been giving you trouble lately?”_

_“Yeah.”_

He felt the weight of Achilles’ backpack smashed against his now bruised back as Hector slammed punch after punch across his face. Today, he was here on Achilles’ behalf, because Achilles was too ill to walk Aegean Street into the fortress and face Hector today, thus, he should bear Achilles’ backpack with more pride. Mustering up his strength, Patroclus shoved Hector away and kneed him in the stomach, the setting sun glaring on him into his tapestry eyes and soft olive skin that was never meant to be here.

            Hector laughed. “This kid’s got fight in him, eh, Paris? Let’s see how long that lasts.”

            It did not last past the glaring sun, and by the time the princes had disappeared into their luxurious chariot, sinking into the leather seats and calling it a day, Patroclus lay slumped in the alleyway beside the main wall, holding Achilles’ backpack as tightly as he could as his face oozed scarlet blood and his heart ached in the milky moonlight.

            “What’s taking him so long?” Achilles groaned worriedly, checking the time. Once an hour had passed and the sky grew dark, he took it upon his sick self to put on some decent clothes and drag his sore body down Aegean.

            “Patroclus!” he cried, trying not to vomit, fever distorting his vision, his head pounding. “Patroclus!”

            “A-Achilles!” a feeble voice sobbed.

            “Patroclus!” As fast as he could in his delirious state, Achilles stumbled over to the main gate, climbing over once he spotted Patroclus’ limp shape in the shadows. “Gods, what happened, Patroclus?” he demanded, pulling his backpack off his weak lover and slinging it over his shoulder, lifting Patroclus off the ground as gingerly as he could.

            Patroclus, dazed, mouth almost dried shut with blood, murmured, “Hector.”

            “Gods, I told you to be careful!” Achilles choked, pushing back the hair from Patroclus’ forehead. “Patroclus, gods, we have to take you to the hospital.”

            He ran down the wine dark asphalt, sneakers pounding on the waves of gravel, desperate. Patroclus had drifted off to lands distant, where the clanging of swords could be heard and the cries of fallen men were as common as funeral pyres. The night in Troy was warm, and the battle that day had been long.

            “I’m sorry, but visitors aren’t allowed at this hour,” the nurse said to the clearly ill boy in the waiting room. “You can come see him tomorrow. Besides, you don’t look so well yourself. Maybe I should call in a doctor to examine-”

            “Don’t,” he cut her off harshly, standing up abruptly. “I have some business to take care of.”

            The flashy Mercedes was visible from the driveway, just below the biggest house in town. Achilles stormed up to the front gate, head cleared by intention and purpose.

            “Hector!” he shouted. “Hector, you bastard, get down here!”

            The lights in the house went on.

            “Hector!” he hollered even louder, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Hector! Get down here, Hector!”

            Groggily, Hector rose from his four poster bed and trudged downstairs, opening the door and marching to the gate.

            “What do you want, you son of a bitch?” he snapped at Achilles.

            Achilles looked at him, eyes glinting like a faithful pair of blade and sword. Without a word, he slammed his fist square into Hector’s finely bred nose, grabbing the collar of his shirt with his other hand continuing his ruthless assault. The crack of bone was the only sound heard from inside the mansion, and worried adults only watched from inside, scared of the delinquent who had suddenly appeared with a fist from Olympus and a fire from Prometheus himself. Once Achilles had reduced Hector to nothing more than a broken, slobbering fool, he charged inside, shoving aside Hector’s shocked family and collected only two things: duct tape and a jangling set of car keys. He hauled Hector onto the back of the beige Mercedes, taping him to the top of the trunk. With conviction, Achilles, unlocked the car and jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and shoving the keys into the ignition. No qualms about his actions, Achilles drove the car down Aegean Street, beneath the blaring street lamps, revving the engine loudly, waking up angry neighbors who looked out their windows to meet a horror.

            “Yeah, you look at this bastard, Troy!” Achilles called. “You take a good fucking look at this bastard who was stupid enough to mess with Achilles!”

            The sirens wailed in the background, the blue and red lights reflecting off revolted faces in nightgowns, but Achilles drove and drove until he reached the front gate of the boys’ school, getting out of the car with no regard to the approaching police, roughly stripping the duct tape off Hector’s shattered body, tossing him onto the concrete.

            “I’m just going to leave you here to the dogs,” he growled, bending down and grabbing the collar of his shirt, teeth gritted. “Just like you left Patroclus,” he spat, shoving him into the ground and speeding away.

            Patroclus’ room was completely dark except for the dim glow of the heart monitor and the little moonlight that squeezed through the break in the curtains. Achilles burst in, sweating and huffing, staggering over to Patroclus’ bed. Awakened by the clamor, Patroclus slowly opened his eyes.

            “Patroclus,” Achilles whispered airily. “It’s me.”

            “Achilles…” Patroclus mumbled, his sleepy smile creeping onto his bruised lips.

            “Hey, hey.” Achilles sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his hushed tone. “How’s the soldier doing?” He placed his hand on his lover’s warm forehead, relieved to find it cleaned of the sticky blood.

            “Okay…” Patroclus turned his face into Achilles’ touch. “You didn’t do anything crazy did you…?” he muttered. “It feels like you did something crazy.”

            “Nah,” Achilles denied. “I just did what needed to be done, that’s all.”

            “You mean your homework?” Patroclus joked weakly.

            Achilles laughed softly. “Yeah, that’s it.” Exhausted, he stretched out onto the bed beside the injured boy, tenderly snaking an arm around his waist, leaning his forehead into Patroclus’ soft tresses.

            “You don’t have to do all that for me,” Patroclus insisted quietly. “I can take care of myself. I’m older than you, you know, and a whole lot more responsible, for that matter.”

            “Yeah, you’re right about the responsible part. But it’s my job to be the rash brave one who doesn’t shy away from the brutal truth of what needs to get done.”

            “Achilles…”

            “Patroclus, I love you, you know.”

            The steady beep of the heart monitor treaded on in the background, crickets chirping in the corner of the silent scene.

            “And I hate Hector,” Patroclus replied firmly after a while, raising his head gently to look at Achilles, lips so close that they could feel each other’s words forming beneath them.

            “Yeah, fuck Hector.”

            With little left to say, Achilles kissed Patroclus, and they imagined themselves on the concrete on Aegean Street beneath the warm glowing lamplight, with all the eyes of the town of Troy on them, with Hector duct taped to the back of the beige Mercedes and Paris crying big tears next to his new girlfriend Helen.

            “I love you, Achilles.”

            Their lips became their refuge. In some other life, they were sure, they were warriors who carried swords and shields and fought side by side in front of towering walls. But in this life, they supposed, they were different kinds of warriors who carried backpacks and pencils and held hands and stared at each other from across the street, dazzled by a young love that had been doomed in a war, but flourished in a small town.

 


End file.
